by Mallory Rush
"Like what you see, chere?"
He laughed low when she forced her gaze to his face. Forced, because she not only liked what she saw, she didn't want to relinquish the quickening arousal she felt, the sensual excitement she'd feared was gone forever. Stolen by an old lecher's cloying breath and grasping gnarled hands, she joyfully, greedily, reclaimed what was hers to explore, to respect, to share. And to fear.
The need Neil stirred was too intense. Too unfamiliar. It was an achingly personal revelation, and the cause of it only increased her delight and distress with his sexy smile.
"You're damn cute when you turn that pretty shade of pink. Think I'll write some music for you—long time since a woman inspired me to do that. 'Andrea.' Great title. Maybe you'll hear your name on the radio one day."
"You mean you might cut another release?" She grasped at the exciting prospect. Almost as exciting as the feel of his hand stroking hers near the place she commanded herself not to stare at again. Not to touch. "You'd do that for me?"
"Sorry to shoot down your hopes, but I wouldn't do that for anybody. I write the music; other artists buy the rights to my songs. My days of touring and cutting hits are gone. No major recording company with a stitch of sense'll touch me. Been that way for five years. Or didn't you know?"
"What I know is that you could be even greater now than you were when I sent in my four bucks." She knew better than to push, but she was feeling brave. If she could come to terms with her past, why couldn't he? Whatever his real past might be. "You're better than ever, Neil. What the Beatles were to rock when they broke up, what Hank Williams was to country when he died, you are to jazz—"
"Was," he insisted, as if his denial could make it true. "I'm a has-been at a young age, if you're counting years. I had my moment, rising up fast as a phoenix before I crashed and burned. No campfire, chere, we're talkin' a major meltdown. It'd take a miracle to raise me from the ashes."
"But the cinders glow brightly. You could find an independent label and pick up where you left off. A lot of people are hoping that will happen. I'm one of them."
"Lots of people, including you, aren't me. I stared so long at the sun, I was all but blinded. I'm where I'm at now by choice, Andrea. Try to understand that. And if you can't, accept it as fact. Take it from me—if you're not good for your own person, you're not good for nobody."
"And are you... good for yourself?"
"Not by a long shot, so you can imagine where that puts others. Especially you."
"I thought you weren't giving me any more warnings."
"Not a warning, a promise. And promises are something I always keep." He wedged her hand farther into his pocket. "You got past the first hurdle, and I'm satisfied you're not a lowlife, diggin' for dirt nosy newshound. So let's get down to the second item of business. I want you out of here. Broken windows. Roaches the size of gutter rats. I want to set you up someplace you can walk home by your lonesome without me frettin' you're getting there safe before I come to call."
"It's certainly no worse than your office," she countered, stung. And shocked enough by his blatant demand to set her up—did he actually think she would agree to be his kept woman—that his insult to her profession was forgotten.
"My office isn't where I lay me down to sleep. Get your bags packed, chere. You're out of here."
"I most certainly am not packing my bags. And you don't have to worry about where I sleep, because I won't be sleeping with you!" She jerked her hand out of his pocket and away from his grip fast. He made no move to get it back.
"Not yet. But you will, and I'll make sure you love every minute of it. Until then, and there will be a then, I'm getting you out of this hovel and into a decent place. These are the facts: I like you—way too much. I desire you even more. But neither are enough for me to sleep down memory lane."
"And just where do you suggest that I move to? Don't tell me—your private quarters. I've heard that song and dance before, Neil. You were right, I was foolish. Foolish enough to hope for better from you."
"You get better than that from me, so wipe that hurt look off your face. I don't like it no more than this hellhole."
"How—how arrogant," she sputtered, searching for words, which were her stock-in-trade, only to come up with nothing sufficient to express her disdain. "I can't believe you coming in here and running down what I've worked for—worked hard to call mine. How would you like it if I spit on your sax or tore up your musical scores?"
"Nothing that nobody else hasn't already done," he said blandly. "Chere, it looks like we're already off at the starting gate. Slow start, but let's see how fast you learn. Hit me with something harder if you aim to make a dent."
He grinned. She couldn't believe it! He was enjoying this, baiting her, toying with her as if she were some kitten batting at the string he held and had complete control of.
She'd never been this mad in her life, so mad she completely forgot her gratitude for him making her want the very thing he was suggesting. Neil Grey was going to find out she didn't come running when any man crooked his finger.
Neil would be lucky to still have his when he left.
"Apparently, Slick, your bad habits and even worse manners need to learn a lesson about me. You might call the shots at work, but I call my own shots wherever I claim my turf. This is my turf, Neil. And you're no longer welcome. I'm not for sale. Repeat: Not... for... sale. Go find someone else to lay yourself down to sleep with, because I'd rather rot in a pine box than share sleazy pillow talk with you."
His brow lifted in amusement as he slowly clapped his hands.
"I'm impressed, very impressed. I knew you had some gumption, but I was afraid to hope for this much. Feels good, don't it? All that sizzle pumping up your insides, a real adrenaline rush. Best sex I ever had was always after tearing into an opponent before we tore up the sheets. Too bad we've got more lessons to swap before slipping between some of our own. In other, more inviting quarters, mind you. With flowers, champagne, music. I always was a sucker for romance."
Was the man deaf, dumb, and blind? And what did he think he was doing, stretching with a big, lazy yawn before snapping the suspenders over his chest, then shrugging them off so that they hung provocatively from his lean waist to his thighs?
"Get out!" Andrea pointed a shaking finger at the door. "Did you hear me? I said, Get out. Take your inflated ego, along with your obnoxious propositions, out the door with you."
"Be happy to," he drawled. "After I get my kiss. Just a kiss, the way we agreed. Pucker up, chere. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner you'll see my back."
"You don't actually believe I'm willing to let you—"
"Of course I do. We did strike a bargain, so it's a done deal as far as I'm concerned. And remember that cheats aren't allowed to work for me. One kiss and I promise you'll eat your words."
It had been almost seven years since she'd desired a man, and her need to excel went even longer and deeper than that. She had a story to write, one that was bigger than his ego, and she would best him at his own game.
She had to keep the job to do it. And if that meant giving him a kiss, then she was back in the race. She'd give him a kiss that would make him eat her dust and out of her hand.
"Okay, Neil, have it your way. Take your kiss, then get out, and I'll see you at five. Sharp."
"You want to do it here with the roaches? Or on the couch that's likely filled with bedbugs?"
"I'll take vertical over horizontal with you any day."
"If you say so. Just remember that you can always change your mind, and I'm going to do my damndest to see that you do."
"Another final warning, Neil? You're damaging your credibility, not to mention exhausting your supply of—"
He suddenly pressed himself against her, and she caught at the countertop cutting into the small of her back. His groin was anchored into her feminine juncture, and though she could have easily tossed him into the sink, the urge to do just that was nothing compare
d to her urge to tilt and rub.
"Ding. The second round's started. Get ready, chere. We'll see who makes it to the final ring."
She opened her mouth to retaliate, but her words were swallowed by his own open mouth. The words she sought to form were pushed back by the force of his tongue. He sucked and worked his lips and tongue in a fluid, energetic ballet that would have been brutal had it not been performed with the artful beauty of a master. All the while he sinuously stroked her errant arms, which embraced him.
As soon as her lips were loose and eager, he gentled the kiss and began to explore her teeth. The tip of his tongue traced the tiny spaces she'd always hated... until now. They became erotic treasures he leisurely wooed, making her feel they were a unique part of her that he saw beauty in.
He ran a thumbnail up and down her spine until she arched. Her hips rose to meet his slow bump and grind. She thrust her hands through his hair, the feel of it as silky and thick as his tongue mating with hers. Vaguely, she realized that he must have been right. The anger she'd felt was transforming into passion, becoming an uncivilized raw hunger. Gone was any thought of restraint or a get-even strategy.
She had to touch him. Had to. The desire was so strong, it was as though she was driven by a merciless compulsion. But when she insinuated her palm between their undulating torsos, he yanked it away and placed it firmly on the countertop.
"A kiss," he hissed against her lips. "Just a kiss so long as you live here. Take it, chere. Take it and want more. Because you're not getting more till I have my way."
Her whimpered protest met with his laughter.
She had no idea how long it went on, but it must have been close to an hour. And then she couldn't bear the unfilled emptiness anymore. She tore her swollen mouth from his and cried out in agonized defeat at his refusal to let her fully claim a womanly triumph.
Neil's hand stroked her from throat to breast to open thighs. He cupped the juncture of those thighs, fingers pressed in and rubbing.
"Just a kiss," he taunted softly. She just missed the peak as he took his hand back and sealed her in a voracious embrace. His lips swept from her scalp to her chin in the sweetest afterplay, while she continued to shake and all but weep. "I cheated, just a tad. Sorry 'bout that. Didn't mean to get carried away. Best damn kiss I've had in years. Maybe even the best ever. Thanks for expanding my resume."
She was still high, but painfully unfulfilled as she reached out, only to grasp nothing. Not even his arms. He was almost at the door. How could he leave her like this?
"You bastard," she gasped, striding toward him and grabbing his arm. "You damn slick bastard. You're manipulative, selfish—"
"I'm all that," he said. "And more. Definitely more at the moment." He caught her wrist and brought her hand to his straining fly. "Don't believe me? Put those nails in my skin to better use, and feel this."
He felt... alive, vitally male. She clenched him. And as she did, the ugly, withered thing etched into her memory was altered to a form that was healthy, virile, sleek, and hard.
Neil pried away her searching fingers and pulled back.
Hands off. Bodies separated. A foot between them while they glared at each other and struggled for breath.
"See you at five, chere. Try to get some rest. This was nothing compared to what's in store."
He pulled the door open, but she slammed it shut.
"I never liked a cheat either, Neil. I kept my end of the bargain—now it's your turn to ante up. You never answered the first question. Do you ever hurt?"
"You still have to ask? I'm hurting. Bad. Look between my legs if you want proof."
"What I want is an answer from your past. Your heart."
"My heart?" he repeated derisively. "You mean what's left of it? So little left I don't have one."
"I don't believe that."
"You don't want to believe it, that's your problem. Right now I've got a problem of my own I aim to satisfy."
"You're leaving here to go to a prostitute?"
"Don't ever suggest such a thing to me again. I have standards—hot damn, can you believe it?—as to who I screw. And where I screw them."
"I don't screw," she said between clenched teeth.
He looked her over, several times, before a slow, smug smile spread from his lips, lips that were incredible and, despite everything, still vastly desirable. Worst of all, he knew it.
"We'll see about that. Should be fun changing your mind. Even if you're in need of a few pointers, I'll be more than happy to oblige." He tweaked her nose. "Later, chere."
"You cheat! You double-crossing cheat! Do you hurt? Can you hurt? Tell me or this is the last deal we ever cut."
His smirk disintegrated.
"Can I hurt?" he repeated distantly, his eyes turning into mires of desolation. "First, answer me this. Why do you think artists are driven to do what they do? Why do painters tell a story with drawings or writers paint a picture with words? Give you a hint. The same reason musicians express themselves in a language that speaks to strangers."
"Because... because they're compelled to express their emotions? Or it's their way of filling an empty spot inside?"
"That's a good part of it, but not all. The pain, chere. They work from the pain. The kind that hurts and never goes away. But no real artist wants it to, since that's the emotionally poisoned well they draw from. The more it hurts, the better they can be. Think of Van Gogh, Edgar Allan Poe, more actors than you can count, and... me."
"Then you must hurt deeply," she said softly, recognizing his wise, jaded strength, feeling an empathy with him that even her resentment couldn't deny.
He reached for her, and though she cursed herself for it, she clung to him. The steady beat of his heart thumped against her cheek as she heard him sigh. "I do. But, chere, it hurts so good."
Chapter 5
Andrea locked her apartment door, barring any undesirable sorts that might have followed her home. She denied the immediate impulse to turn on every light and scanned the room by glow of the blinking neon sign outside. Assured she was alone, she hurried to the balcony and pulled back the gauzy curtains.
Frantically, she searched the street below. The bum she'd almost stepped on was still lying in the trash-strewn gutter. One of her neighbors, a female impersonator working at a local nightclub, stopped at a corner across the street and said something to someone in the shadows.
Was that the someone she'd felt dogging her steps home for the past week, only to disappear whenever she spun around? Or was it only her imagination making the fine hair prickle on her neck? Each night when she'd reached her building, she sensed her stalker pause. Heart pounding, she'd flooded her apartment with light then yanked back the drapes in silent challenge, but whenever she peered out she saw... nothing.
This time she left the lights off, rendering herself as invisible as her night stalker. The thin curtain trembled in her grip as she waited and watched. Her neighbor headed toward the apartment building. A match flared in the shadows, then went out.
A large man stepped forward.
Tilting up his head, he looked straight at her balcony.
Andrea let go of the curtain and pressed her back to the wall, her heart racing. Neil. She peeked out again and saw that he glanced at his watch, took several cigarette puffs, then strode in her direction.
Was he trying to scare her away or scare her back, since all week she'd been keeping a safe, not-within-touching distance from him?
Whichever it was, she was going to find out. She turned on the lamp beside her couch and prepared to do battle as she struggled with the stubborn lock on the French doors. It finally gave, and she stepped onto the balcony with a huff.
The sharp challenge on her tongue faltered when she found herself staring at his retreating back. She saw the somersault of his cigarette in the air, and then, like him, it was gone.
Andrea took several shaky breaths. And then she pulled out her portable typewriter from the closet. The sweat had yet to
dry on her palms as she began to read her latest notes:
Who is this man really? What drives him to perform and yet shun applause from the masses, to create but let lesser artists revel in the glory of his compositions rather than take rightful claim?
These are a few of the contradictions defining Neil Grey. As a professional, he creates music that is beyond ambition. He captures the invisible grace that even auspicious peers miss. It's his signature, and no one can duplicate it, not even a master forger.
But as with Beethoven, it's a gift that seems misplaced in the hands of a man who shrugs off the honor, and those who would honor it. Many similarities exist between these two musical geniuses: the arrogance; self centered egotism; foul mouths, and even fouler manners. But Grey's disdain is more subtle, and it is that subtlety that makes the pain he seems driven to share keener and more offensive.
Rereading the last paragraph, she felt her palms grow more moist. She typed XXXX. As many Xs as it took to silence a half hour's angry work that was anything but objective.
She began to pound the keys, putting one word in front of the other, until day broke and her back ached.
Andrea stretched and sighed as she read the new pages. She'd given up the vain quest for objectivity, but at least she had managed to be fair. Most of it would have to be rewritten, at least a page trashed, but the last paragraph she knew she'd keep:
He is the rarest of breeds, a visionary who casts a giant shadow but hides it to walk among men. He hides it well, and for reasons unknown—but his purpose, elusive like his music, is there. He is a rebel with a cause who likes to shake things up, then disappear to watch from the wings...
* * *
It was dark, pitch-black, the way he liked it when he had something to think about. That's when the music usually came, with everything silent except for the melody filling his head.
Like a sparkler on the Fourth of July, the glowing red tip of Neil's cigarette slashed the air while his foot tapped to the beat.
"Dammit, and damn her while I'm at it. That's not it." He stopped the cigarette in mid-arc and swooped it to his mouth.